The Range Boss by Charles Alden Seltzer (reader novel .TXT) đ
- Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
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Inside the bunkhouse, Uncle Jepson, who had been speaking, paused long enough to wrinkle his nose at Masten. Randersonâs expression did not change; it was one of grave expectancy.
âYou was sayinâââ he prompted, looking at Uncle Jepson.
âThat the whole darned deal was a frame-up,â declared Uncle Jepson. âI was settinâ in the messhouse along in the afternoon of the day of the killinââsmokinâ anâ thinkinâ, but most of the time just settinâ, I calâlate, when I heard Chavis anâ Pickett talkinâ low anâ easy outside. They was a crack in the wall, anâ I plastered one ear up agâin it, anâ took in all they was sayinâ. First, they was talkinâ about the bad feelinâ between you anâ Pickett. Pickett said he wanted to âgitâ you, anâ that Masten wanted to get you out of the way because of what youâd done to him at Calamity. But I reckon that ainât the real reason; heâs got some idea that you anâ Ruthââ
âShucks,â said Randerson impatiently.
âAnyway,â grinned Uncle Jepson, âfor some reason, he donât want you hanginâ around. Far as I could gather, Pickett wanted some excuse to have you fire him, soâs he could shoot you. He talked some to Masten about it, anâ Masten told him to tackle Ruth, but not to get too rough about it, anâ not to go too far.â
âGreat guns! The low-down, mean, sneakinâââ said Randerson. His eyes were glowing; his words came with difficulty through his straightened lips.
âMasten wouldnât take it up, he told Pickett,â went on Uncle Jepson. âHeâd put it up to you. Anâ when youâd tackle Pickett about it, Pickett would shoot you. If they was any chance for Chavis to help along, heâd do it. But mostly, Pickett was to do the job. I calâlate thatâs about allâexcept that I layed for you anâ told you to look out.â
âYou heard this talk afterâafter Pickett hadââ
âOf course,â growled Uncle Jepson, a venomous flash in his eyes, slightly reproachful.
âSureâof course,â agreed Randerson. He was grim-eyed; there was cold contempt in the twist of his lips. He sat for a long time, silent, staring out through the door, Uncle Jepson watching him, subdued by the look in his eyes.
When he spoke at last, there was a cold, bitter humor in his voice.
âSo thatâs Willardâs measure!â he said. âHe grades up like a side-winder slidinâ under the sagebrush. Thereâs nothinâ clean about him but his clothes. But heâs playinâ a gameâhim anâ Chavis. Anâ Iâm the guy theyâre after!â He laughed, and Uncle Jepson shivered. âSheâs seen one killinâ, anâ I reckon, if she stays here a while longer, sheâll see another: Chavisâ.â He stopped and then went on: âWhy, I reckon Chavis dyinâ wouldnât make no more impression on her than Pickett dyinâ. But I reckon she thinks a heap of Willard, donât she, Uncle Jep?â âIf a girl promisesââ began Uncle Jepson.
âI reckonââ interrupted Randerson. And then he shut his lips and looked grimly out at the horses in the corral.
âDo you reckon sheâdââ Randerson began again, after a short silence. âNo,â he answered the question himself, âI reckon if youâd tell her she wouldnât believe you. No good woman will believe anything bad about the man she lovesâor thinks she loves. But Willardââ
He got up, walked out the door, mounted Patches and rode away. Going to the door, Uncle Jepson watched him until he faded into the shimmering sunshine of the plains.
âI calâlate that Willardââ
But he, too, left his speech unfinished, as though thought had suddenly ceased, or speculation had become futile and ridiculous.
As Randerson rode Patches through the break in the canyon wall in the afternoon of a day about a week after his talk with Uncle Jepson in the bunkhouse, he was thinking of the visit he intended to make. He had delayed it long. He had not seen Abe Catherson since taking his new job.
âI reckon heâll think Iâm right unneighborly,â he said to himself as he rode.
When he reached the nesterâs cabin, the dog Nig greeted him with vociferous affection, bringing Hagar to the door.
âOh, itâs Rex!â cried the girl delightedly. And then, reproachfully: âMe anâ dad allowed you wasnât cominâ any more!â
âYou anâ dad was a heap mistaken, then,â he grinned as he dismounted and trailed the reins over the ponyâs head. âIâve had a heap to âtend to,â he added as he stepped on the porch and came to a halt, looking at her. âWhy, I reckon the little kid I used to know ainât here any more!â he said, his eyes alight with admiration, as he critically examined her garments from the distance that separated her from himâa neat house dress of striped gingham, high at the throat, the bottom hem reaching below her shoe-tops; a loose-fitting apron over the dress, drawn tightly at the waist, giving her figure graceful curves. He had never thought of Hagar in connection with beauty; he had been sorry for her, pitying herâshe had been a child upon whom he had bestowed much of the unselfish devotion of his heart; indeed, there had been times when it had assumed a practical turn, and through various ruses much of his wages had been delicately forced upon the nester. It had not always been wisely expended, for he knew that Catherson drank deeply at times.
Now, however, Randerson realized that the years must inevitably make a change in Hagar. That glimpse he had had of her on the Flying W ranchhouse porch had made him think, but her appearance now caused him to think more deeply. It made constraint come into his manner.
âI reckon your dad ainât anywhere around?â he said.
âDadâs huntinâ up some cattle this morninâ,â she told him. âShucks,â she added, seeing him hesitate, âainât you cominâ in?â
âWhy, Iâve been wonderinââ and he grinned guiltily âwhether itâd be exactly proper. You see, there was a time when I busted right in the house without waitinâ for an invitationâtickled to get a chance to dawdle a kid on my knee. But I reckon them dawdle-days is over. I wouldnât think of tryinâ to dawdle a woman on my knee. But if you think that youâre still Hagar Catherson, anâ you wonât be dead-set on me dawdlinâ youâWhy, shucks, I reckon Iâm talkinâ like a fool!â And his face blushed crimson.
Her face was red too, but she seemed to be less conscious of the change in herself than he, though her eyes drooped when he looked at her.
He followed her inside and formally took a chair, sitting on its edge and turning his hat over and over in his hands, looking much at it, as if it were new and he admired it greatly.
But this constraint between them was not the only thing that was new to him. While she talked, he sat and listened, and stole covert glances at her, and tried to convince himself that it was really Hagar that was sitting there before him.
But before long he grew accustomed to the strangeness of the situation, and constraint dropped from him. âWhy, I reckon itâs all natural,â he confided to her. âFolks grow up, donât they? Take you. Yesterday you was a kid, anâ I dawdled you on my knee. Today youâre a woman, anâ it makes me feel some breathless to look at you. But itâs all natural. Iâd been seeinâ you so much that Iâd forgot that time was makinâ a woman of you.â
She blushed, and he marveled over it. âShe canât see, herself, how sheâs changed,â he told himself. And while they talked he studied her, noting that her color was higher than he had ever seen it, that the frank expression of her eyes had somehow changedâthere was a glow in them, deep, abiding, embarrassed. They drooped from his when he tried to hold her gaze. He had always admired the frank directness of themâthat told of unconsciousness of sex, of unquestioning trust. Today, it seemed to him, there was subtle knowledge in them. He was puzzled and disappointed. And when, half an hour later, he took his leave, after telling her that he would come again, to see her âdad,â he took her by the shoulders and forced her to look into his eyes. His own searched hers narrowly. It was as in the old daysâin his eyes she was still a child.
âI reckon I wonât kiss you no more, Hagar,â he said. âYou ainât a kid no more, anâ it wouldnât be square. Seventeen is an awful old age, ainât it?â
And then he mounted and rode down the trail, still puzzled over the lurking, deep glow in her eyes.
âI reckon I ainât no expert on womenâs eyes,â he said as he rode. âBut Hagarâsâthereâs somethinâ gone out of them.â
He could not have reached the break in the canyon leading to the plains above the river, when Willard Masten loped his horse toward the Catherson cabin from an opposite direction.
Hagar was standing on the porch when he came, and her face flooded with color when she saw him. She stood, her eyes drooping with shy embarrassment as Masten dismounted and approached her. And then, as his arm went around her waist, familiarly, he whispered:
âHow is my little woman today?â
She straightened and looked up at him, perplexity in her eyes.
âRex Randerson was just hyeh,â she said. âI wanted to tell him about you wantinâ me to marry you. But I thought of what you told me, anâ I didnât. Do you sure reckon heâd kill you, if he knowed?â
âHe certainly would,â declared Masten, earnestly. âNo oneânot even your fatherâmust know that I come here to see you.â
âI reckon I wonât tell. But Miss Ruth? Are you sure she donât care for you any more?â
âWell,â he lied glibly; âshe has broken our engagement. But if she knew that I come here to see you sheâd be jealous, you know. So itâs better not to tell her. If you do tell her, Iâll stop coming,â he threatened.
âItâs hard to keep from tellinâ folks how happy I am,â she said. âOnce, I was afraid Rex Randerson could see it in my eyesâwhen he took a-hold of my arms hyeh, anâ looked at me.â
Masten looked jealously at her. âLooked at you, eh?â he said. âAre you sure he didnât try to do anything elseâdidnât do anything else? Like kissing you, for instance?â
âIâm certain sure,â she replied, looking straight at him. âHe used to kiss me. But he says Iâm a woman, now, anâ it wouldnât be square to kiss me any more.â Her eyes had drooped from his.
âAnâ I reckon thatâs right, too, ainât it?â She looked up again, not receiving an answer. âWhy, how red your face is!â she exclaimed. âI ainât said nothinâ to hurt you, have I?â
âNo,â he said. But he held her tightly to him, her head on his shoulder, so that she might not see the guilt in his eyes.
Randerson continued his policy of not forcing himself upon Ruth. He went his way, silent, thoughtful, attending strictly to business. To Ruth, watching him when he least suspected it, it seemed that he had grown more grim and stern-looking since his coming to the Flying W. She saw him, sometimes, laughing quietly with Uncle Jepson; other times she heard him talking gently to Aunt Marthaâwith an expression that set her to wondering whether he were the same man that she had seen that day with the pistol in hand, shooting the life out of a fellow being. There were times when she wavered in her conviction of his heartlessness.
Since Ruth had announced her decision not to marry Masten until
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